


trainwrecks and heartaches

by louisaeve



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, this has a lot of references to queer!jily because yeahhhhhh it was canon k?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisaeve/pseuds/louisaeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a massive fuck up in the way that teenagers are. </p><p>You're lanky arms and legs, messed up hair and ink splattered fingers shoved into trouser pockets. You're Quidditch magazines and other magazines and textbooks with doodles in them. You're the summer you spent in France with your mother and father when you were eight and you're the time you crashed your broom into a chair when you were drunk last year. You're lazy Sunday afternoons with far too much work ahead of you that hangs on your shoulders like a weight, and you're glasses that hang across your nose wrong. </p><p>(A Character Analysis)</p>
            </blockquote>





	trainwrecks and heartaches

**Author's Note:**

> an attempt at jily characterisation + queerness

You're a massive fuck up in the way that teenagers are. 

You're lanky arms and legs, messed up hair and ink splattered fingers shoved into trouser pockets. You're Quidditch magazines and other magazines and textbooks with doodles in them. You're the summer you spent in France with your mother and father when you were eight and you're the time you crashed your broom into a chair when you were drunk last year. You're lazy Sunday afternoons with far too much work ahead of you that hangs on your shoulders like a weight, and you're glasses that hang across your nose wrong. 

You're the time you met your best friend and the time you hated him. You're the time you teased your arch nemesis, and you're the time you saved him. You're chasing the same girl, if chasing is endless crushing from afar. You're embarrassing yourself in front of her, blurting out in the way that your fucking large mouth has the tendency to do. You're going out with Joanna to Hogsmeade for three dates and sitting through the worst pureblooded mania you've ever heard. You're pushing her over when she makes a particularly bad remark. 

You're hot temper and blood that raises too fast. You're fast fights which come and end too quickly. You're easy going verbal fights over the best Broomstick Ballad's winner yet. You're rolling on the floor with your friends, pulling their hair jokingly. You're slinging arms over peoples shoulders casually, because how else? You're easy winks and smiles, the type that make the girls from out of school giggle (and the ones from in school roll their eyes and laugh at, because everyone knows who you're hung up on). You're awkward kisses in broomstick closets. The awkward kisses in school and at home, whispering that your parents can't hear from here. You're that time in third year, when you got drunk in the dorm, and woke up naked next to him. You're reluctant hugs at the train station, that were far too short despite your facade (which every saw through). You're 'good job son's' you yearned for far too often, and claps on the shoulder which made you feel like the first time you flew. 

You're trousers stained. Stained with ink and soil and grass and food and alcohol and the smell of seedy bars and cigars. The hands slung into them, worn without a belt, in the way that makes your mother fret. You're shirts untucked and rucked up to the elbow (not folded, because who has time for that?). You're bare stripes of skin through fabric. You're wearing the clothes two, three, four days in a row. 

You're you, and you don't realise it, because you're the biggest fuck up in your own head. 

She's rounded hips and breasts with a white smile and crooked teeth. She's red hair stuck up with a quill, a pen, her wand. She's fiction and theory (all of the movements are happening and they're her favourite place to be) and trashy magazines to giggle over underneath the covers at night. She's the year she spent in her home nation Ireland, all short days and marshes and green coverings and long nights with bugs. She's the first time she got drunk, and came home laughing too loudly and too much. She's late night essays, scribbled in bed while her roommates groan and throw pillows and shoes at her, and she's splatterings of freckles dancing across her cheeks. 

She's her best friend and her heartbreak. She's her roommates and all of their tears and troubles and fears and dreams and hopes. She's boys chasing and chasing and chasing, because she's something out of this world in the way that girls like her are. She's going out with Conner and Lachlan and crying in the bathroom for hours. She's cheating on Conner, and slaps that stung for days. 

She's easy to anger and easy to despair. She's pulling at hair of women who picked fights with her, and kicking their stomach with heels too sharp. She's the furtherest thing from an angel with grime and blood beneath her heels in the dirty pub she likes to drink at. She's quick to smile, quick to laugh, quick to snipe, laughing with crooked teeth flashing as she presses lipstick red kisses in a show of affection. She's smiling at her lab partner and meeting him in the cupboard ten minutes later, pressing up against him, pulling off robes like the devil is chasing her. She's awkward first times and worse last times. She's crying in her room, hoping her sister won't hear, won't hear her weakness. She's hugging her mum tightly, tightly, tightly, hoping that if she holds on, her wisp of a mother won't slip away like her father. She's the time she kissed Mary with nothing more than lipstick on her lips. She's every piece of praise she receives, and how she feels like she deserves none of it. 

She's short skirts and shorter tops. Heels that raise those long long long legs up up up and carry her hips with a switch in her walk. She's painted lips the colour of blood, the colour that matches her long long nails she takes care of so well. She's tight skirts that drive you mad, lacy bras peeping out, bringing out thoughts that make you groan. She's smirks and ink smudges that match yours if you'd only press them against one another. She's clean clothes and no underwear, no underwear for days on end. 

She's perfect and she's a train wreck and she won't realise it in this world or the next seven.

**Author's Note:**

> this was saved as 'poetic jily or whatever i suck' i think that should tell you everything  
> also it took 5 months to complete the lily part  
> lily is hard


End file.
